


If We Get This Right

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rank Disparity, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which General Washington and President Washington double-team their boy, and Hamilton has a damn good time.





	If We Get This Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aidennestorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/gifts).



He would command Hamilton to sleep if he thought the boy would listen.

Washington knew better, of course. Even a direct order was almost certain to be deflected, artfully enough that it would seem simple common sense to allow Hamilton his way. Washington's right hand man was far too clever for his own good. And when the work to be done was so constant and overwhelming, it was far too easy to be swayed by his arguments.

Far too easy to take the young man's boundless energy for granted.

Headquarters was eerily quiet at this hour, the silence broken only occasionally by a distant creak of floorboards beneath restless footsteps. Those footsteps belonged to Hamilton, of course—the only member of Washington's staff mule-headed enough to keep at his work so long and so late. Stubborn. But then, Washington was also still awake. He did not precisely have a leg to stand on.

He spared a glance for his bed, and for a fleeting moment was tempted to set his own work aside. He would be lucky to sleep at all tonight, but surely a couple hours wouldn't hurt. His eyes were beginning to strain from the weak light. He didn't want to read another bleak field report that would tell him only what he already knew: that the enemy continued to outnumber them, staggeringly and completely. That their own forces were dwindling. That they could not win this war.

They _must_ win this war; Washington refused to consider the impossibility of the task.

Another creak of floorboards drew his thoughts back to Hamilton, so near at hand. Their headquarters were small—like everything about this town—located in a single-story farmhouse, so cramped that Washington's office and bedchamber were one and the same. The workroom itself was barely larger, leaving his aides packed elbow-to-elbow during the day. At night there was nowhere to lay their bedrolls, and so the boys slept out of doors. Considering the heat of summer, they were almost certainly more comfortable for it.

Washington himself had undressed down to his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. The air in his office was too stifling for the heavy blue jacket of his uniform, and in any case there was no one to impress at this hour. There was only Hamilton, hard at work across the hall, and it took more than a crisp uniform to impress him.

Perhaps that was why his boy remained so diligent at this unnatural hour. Trying to live up to his own exacting standards, restless and relentless in _everything_ he did. Too stubborn to care that the hour was nearing two in the morning, or that headquarters had long since locked up for the night. What did _that_ matter, when Hamilton himself possessed the key?

Amusement and affection flared uninvited at these wandering thoughts. It was absurd how quickly Hamilton had rendered himself indispensable to Washington's cause, to his avalanche of duties, even to his person. Barely a year since joining Washington's staff, and already he'd taken charge of men who outranked him in station, in age, in experience.

Washington's chief of staff. His right hand man. A position Hamilton filled so incomparably that Washington could no longer imagine fighting this war without him.

It was not the sole reason he couldn't imagine his life without Hamilton, but it was the only one he would admit to. The boy's genius with words and tireless work ethic were reasons enough to keep him close. It was to the entire army's advantage that Washington prevent his chief of staff from martyring himself on the battlefield. It didn't matter that his interest in protecting the boy had grown infinitely personal. He'd gone to great pains to guard this particular secret, and he would be damned before anyone found out.

He would likely be damned anyway. Coveting a man less than half his age, a soldier without station, a boy with no family or fortune of his own. All of these things were unforgivable. Washington should have been content with Hamilton's sharp mind and quill. He should not want more.

But oh, did he want _more_.

A better man—or at least a less exhausted one—might have resisted the drag of his thoughts into more carnal territory. But Washington was alone. Hamilton would not cross the hall un-summoned, and so there was no one to account to. No one to notice his distraction. No one to call him out on the impropriety of imagining Alexander Hamilton on his knees, beautiful mouth silent for once, servicing the hard length of his general's cock.

Washington wondered if Hamilton had the experience to be skillful, or if he would be innocent of intimacies between men. Wondered if he might be sweet, or if he would be as defiant in bed as he was in every other aspect of his headstrong life.

These were questions to which Washington would never know the answers. They were questions he _would not ask_. But in the darkness that pressed close despite the flickering flame of his lantern, Washington wondered anyway.

When the shadows encroached darker across his vision, he at first thought his own eyes were the problem. He'd been working by lantern light too long, and the fatigue and strain were finally overtaking him. He should sleep; the work would still be there in the morning.

He would finish one more page first, the last document in his hand.

But he couldn't keep reading. The darkness grew more complete, obscuring the words like a spill of fresh ink. When Washington raised his eyes, he found the flame flickering atop his desk. Violently, as though in a rough wind, but bright. The shadows should not have been stretching across his desk, and certainly not as quick and steady as they seemed to be moving.

It took him several heartbeats to notice that the quiet—already so heavy throughout the small house—was eerily and utterly complete. He could no longer hear the creak of floorboards from across the hall. He couldn't hear his own breath quickening in his chest. He couldn't hear the rustle of papers as he set his work down, or the scrape of chair legs on the floor as he rose to his feet.

Movement caught his eye from the darkest corner of the room, in the heavy swath of shadows behind the hall door.

He rounded his desk, blinking, straining his eyes for a better look.

Before he could lift the lantern from his desk, a noiseless burst of light made him cringe and hide his face in the crook of his arm. The flash was painful in the dimness. It left spots of color dancing across his field of vision.

When he raised his head again, the darkness felt more natural. He could _see_ , albeit poorly—the firelight still didn't reach the darkest corners of the room.

He could _hear_ again, too. His own startled breathing. His heartbeat rushing in his ears. Hamilton pacing across the hall—undoubtedly composing a vicious rebuke to the Continental Congress—apparently oblivious to the strangeness so close at hand.

In fairness, Hamilton had a singular ability to ignore everything besides the words in his head when focused. The report of a canon could sound without dislodging him from his thoughts.

It did not occur to Washington to wonder if he was imagining things. He was not a man to doubt his own senses or the evidence before them. And so he was still on his guard when a softening of shadows in that same corner revealed the figure of a man.

The dimness made it impossible to decipher a face or features—made it seem almost as though the man were not truly there. He looked ethereal, despite broad shoulders and a sturdy bearing. Insubstantial and strange.

Washington's heart pounded faster. He considered the pistols behind his desk.

He hadn't yet reached for them when the mysterious figure stumbled in a sideways lurch. A grunt of pain burst low into the quiet, and Washington darted forward with the speed of reflex.

He caught hold of thickly muscled arms, easing the man's fall. It was a challenge; there was nothing ethereal about him now. He was sturdy and solid, certainly as tall as Washington, and just as heavy. Bald, Washington noted as his own knees found the floor. Well dressed, all in black—no wonder he blended so well with the surrounding shadows—even this close he was difficult to see, curled forward and shaking as he was. Strong hands sought purchase in Washington's shirtsleeves, grip tightening in a spasm.

"Are you all right?" Washington asked, even though he could think of several more urgent questions. _Who are you_? _Where have you come from_? _How is this possible_?

He cautiously let go, and was relieved when his visitor managed to do the same without falling over. A moment later and the man straightened, revealing a sight so familiar and improbable that Washington gasped aloud.

His own eyes stared back at him, bleary and disoriented, but clearing quickly. There was no sign of pain. "I'm well enough. I apologize for frightening you."

Washington considered protesting that he hadn't been frightened, but it seemed a pointless lie. What man wouldn't be apprehensive at the sight of a stranger appearing from empty air?

For a long moment he could not find his voice. He could do nothing but stare at the impossible man before him. His own mirror image, but… imperfect. The clothing resembled nothing Washington had ever worn, the black velvet coat a strange style and cut, and certainly not appropriate for a general at war. The face, too, was different. Older. Softer along the jaw, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. And yet still unmistakably _him_.

He did not notice that he himself was the object of matching scrutiny until his double murmured a single quiet word.

"Incredible."

"What in damnation is this?" Washington demanded. Now that his own frozen stillness had broken, it was difficult not to recoil from the sight before him. It seemed a shattering of the very laws of nature; he could fathom no explanation.

"An unsolvable quandary, I'm afraid," his visitor answered. There was an unmistakable hint of wonder in his voice when he continued, "Remarkable. I _remember this_. I'd begun to wonder if it really happened."

Washington squared his shoulders and leveled a determined glare. "If you do not explain your presence, I _will_ call for security. I'll not have witchcraft in my camp."

His guest laughed— _laughed_ —low and apparently delighted. It was a reaction Washington did not appreciate.

"If you think this situation amusing—"

"No." The laughter faded quickly, replaced by a more somber aspect. "Apologies, General. I know your questions are serious. I simply have no answers to give. It isn't witchcraft—at least, it is nothing of _my_ doing—and I have never found an explanation."

"Surely you must know _something_."

"What year is this?" His double asked, and the question startled the glare from Washington's face.

"Seventeen seventy-eight." Three endless years he had been fighting this war. There were days he feared he would never stop.

But his answer earned a knowing nod. "Then I truly am from your future. And I'm _you_ , whether you can credit the fact or not."

Both of these were truths Washington couldn't deny in the face of such obvious proof. Of course this man was him, and of course he was older. A decade or so. These facts did not satisfy him as an explanation might have, but he silently conceded he could not simply will the answers he wanted into existence.

At least there was proof enough now of a future beyond this war. He must do well for himself in the years to follow, judging by the fine state of the clothing his future self wore.

"I know you have other questions." The man rose to stand without assistance. "But I'm afraid I cannot answer them. I can't tell you how to navigate the rest of this war, or what the future will hold. There is danger in knowing too much."

Washington rose as well, met his own eyes steadily through the shadows. He wished desperately for the answers his guest was denying him, but he could also see the inexorable logic behind this denial. In any case, it was reassuring to be handed irrefutable proof of a future beyond this wasteland of blood and death and deprivation.

He remained in the corner, motionless and watchful—still fascinated by the improbable sight before him—as his mirror image stepped past him and moved farther into the room. Toward the desk and the light and the work that had kept Washington awake to such an unkind hour. A moment more and the man shed his coat, revealing white shirt sleeves and a black waistcoat beneath, as he folded the heavy garment and laid it over one corner of the desk.

The lantern on the opposite corner did an imperfect job of lighting the workspace. It painted this older visage in dramatic relief and left the rest of the room overwhelmed by shadow.

Washington set aside his questions about what was and was not possible. He couldn't set his other curiosities aside so easily, but he did his best not to voice them. He wondered exactly how much older he had grown, how many years had passed since the end of the war. He found himself desperate to know if the war was not just over, but _won_. The whole and hale state of his future self hardly stood as proof of the colonial army's victory. It was proof only that Washington survived and prospered.

Stern eyes tracked over the documents stacked atop the desk, a moment's perusal before the man turned to face Washington once more. He leaned against the front edge of the desk and dropped both arms to his sides, curling his hands around the polished wooden edge. The lantern was not far from where he perched, but at this angle the glint of firelight offered little illumination of the eerily familiar face.

"Tell me, General," the visitor said, soft and earnest. "Is your chief of staff at work across the hall?"

Washington's brow furrowed at the question, but he saw no reason not to answer honestly. "Yes. Hamilton is always at work."

His guest chuckled with such obvious fondness that Washington's heart gave a sympathetic twinge, affection and exasperation at the thought of his boy working himself as though pure stubbornness could keep fatigue at bay. It always ended the same—with Washington ordering Hamilton to set aside his quill and sleep—and Hamilton always returned far too soon. Resuming whatever task he'd left unfinished, as though he'd never even lost his train of thought.

It was difficult to be sure with his view so obscured, but Washington thought he saw a smile.

" _Hamilton_ ," his double called, loud enough to carry through the house.

Washington froze, heartbeat surging, eyes widening in disbelief. He couldn't fathom what was going through the man's mind, to make him call Hamilton across the hall. Whatever confluence of science and magic had brought him here, surely the fewer people who knew of it the better.

But Hamilton's footsteps were already audible in the hall. A moment later the door swung inward, Hamilton striding through without so much as a candle of his own to light the way.

He did not see his general, still standing amid shadows in the corner. Instead Hamilton's eyes immediately alighted on the unlikely visitor leaning against Washington's desk. The state of his attire clearly gave the boy no pause—between the dimness and the fact that Washington frequently worked in his shirt sleeves, what was there to notice—and Hamilton drew to a stop before the man. Spine straight at attention, hands clasped behind his back.

Even from behind he appeared tired. Always pushing himself too hard. There seemed nothing Washington could do to prevent it.

"Your Excellency? Do you need me to draft a letter?"

"No," the other Washington said softly, while the general himself looked on in silent confusion. "I need you to come here, into the light."

Hamilton's posture eased, and he obeyed without hesitation, approaching the desk. He stopped at the stranger's side, confusion only the faintest glimmer in his expression. Even up close it seemed he could not see clearly enough to recognize anything amiss. But then, how could he realize? How could he possibly surmise that the Washington who had called him was not actually his general?

Washington watched, wordless and motionless. He didn't know why he was so firmly frozen to the spot, but he found himself entirely helpless to interfere. There was nothing unnatural in his stillness—merely a potent mix of curiosity and disbelief—and maybe even a hint of fear. It was only natural to fear something so impossible.

Across the room, his future self straightened and turned to face Hamilton more directly. His posture was easy as he crossed his arms and proclaimed, "You work yourself too hard, Alexander."

At this angle Washington more heard than saw the disbelieving smile when Hamilton answered, "All due respect, sir, but I'm not the only one still awake."

The insubordinate retort earned a warm burst of laughter from the visitor. Even when the sound faded, it left an indecipherable buzz of energy, lingering in the shadowed spaces of the room. Hamilton seemed to feel it, judging by the way his posture straightened, his head tilting in a way Washington had learned well since Hamilton first joined his staff.

"Sir, is… everything all right?" Hamilton asked when the silence stretched too long. He eased nearer with the question, careless to the boundaries of propriety and personal space.

"Fine, my boy. Just feeling sentimental." Quick and smooth, Washington's doppelgänger leaned closer. He set a hand high on Hamilton's arm.

It was an innocuous touch. Washington had no explanation for the sudden unbearable tightness in his chest.

Then—

God, then—

Then the stranger's other hand slipped to the small of Hamilton's back and tugged him forward. Hamilton stumbled, both hands rising at the loss of balance, palms pressed to the broad chest. There was not enough space between the two men, and Washington's heart lurched at the sight of his mirror image _pulling the boy closer_. The hand on Hamilton's arm slid higher, cupped the side of his face, as the stranger murmured something hushed and inaudible in his ear.

Tension twined the length of Washington's spine, his whole body ready to burst forward and protect his boy. To explain… What explanation he could give, he didn't yet know. But he would be _damned_ before he let this reflection of himself do Alexander harm.

He expected Hamilton to recoil at the uninvited intimacy—to twist free and repudiate the inappropriate touch—because it was the only possibility. Of course Hamilton would reject these attentions, all the more strongly for believing they came from Washington himself. He would be flustered and offended at best; and Washington could not even picture what reaction his boy might summon at worst.

But Hamilton didn't even tense.

The taut panic vanished from Washington's body in a rush of confusion. He watched Hamilton _melt_ , instant and unmistakable, and allow himself to be tucked close. A moment later and Hamilton's fingers twisted in pale shirtsleeves, holding tight, holding on. And it could only be deliberate, the way Washington's future self shifted Alexander in his arms, so that Washington could see him press a kiss to the boy's throat, just above the line of his cravat.

Washington abruptly forgot how to breathe.

He stared, uncomprehending, as Hamilton shifted with purpose, stretching up in search of a proper kiss. Equally confusing was the sight of his double rebuffing the attempt—earning an audible noise of protest from Hamilton—though the stranger did not loosen his hold as he turned his head away.

"But sir, I thought you wanted— What's wrong?" A plaintive note edged the question, alongside a faint tinge of hurt.

"Nothing is wrong, my boy. And I do _very much_ want. But I have an improbable confession first."

"Sir?"

"I am not exactly who you think I am."

"What the hell does that mean?" The plaintive tone was gone, replaced by mounting confusion. Washington could practically _hear_ Hamilton's mind working at its usual frantic speeds, but of course the boy could not possibly find his way to a truth so perplexing and unlikely.

"If you would indulge me for a moment…" The visitor murmured. Then, deft as anything, he turned Hamilton in his arms—tucked him back against his chest—draped an arm around Hamilton's narrow waist as he angled both of them to face the corner behind the door.

Washington's mind and heart reeled, struggling to catch up. This could not be real. Hamilton could not _want him_. And yet the evidence stood before him. There was no other conclusion to be drawn from the sight of Hamilton in this stranger's arms, when Hamilton so clearly thought the stranger was him.

Washington took a wordless step forward as though summoned, a movement of instinct rather than conscious intent.

Hamilton's eyes widened, and he gave a visible jolt of panic. Washington could only imagine what was going through his head, the realization of a witness to something so perilous and private. Not recognizing his general through the heavy shadows—not knowing to look for him in the first place, when he thought he knew who was touching him. No wonder the boy looked on the verge of panic.

But the stranger tightened the arm around Hamilton's waist, caught his wrist in the other hand. "Be easy, Alexander. There's no danger here."

Hamilton subsided at the rumble of reassurance. An instant later and his eyes blinked even wider, a different flavor of shock turning his features slack as Washington stepped into the light.

He was close enough now to touch, but he kept his hands at his sides.

"This— This isn't possible." Hamilton twisted to look over his shoulder, then settled again, staring into Washington's face with incredulous eyes. "Am I dreaming?" Despite the look of utter disbelief, there was undeniable warmth flashing in his expression. It took Washington a moment to realize the obvious truth—that Hamilton would consider this a _very good dream_ —and his cock stirred with interest at the thought.

"No, Alexander." He did not often allow himself to use the boy's given name. He thrilled at the feeling of it on his tongue, as he crowded closer into Hamilton's space. Still he resisted the urge to touch, though he could feel mingling body heat in the sliver of air between them. "This is no dream."

"There are two of you." Hamilton sounded so helpless, his quicksilver brain obviously scrambling at the quandary without gaining purchase. " _How_?" His eyes darted down to Washington's mouth, then up again like a guilty afterthought.

"I don't know," Washington admitted.

"It doesn't matter," he heard his own voice cut in from behind Hamilton. "What matters is that I am _here_. And not for very long, I expect. But I intend to make the most of the time I have."

Hamilton inhaled sharply, visibly trembling. The sight should not have sent Washington's blood pooling southward to harden his cock. Then again, there was no point denying his interest now.

He watched his doppelgänger release Hamilton's wrist to tug the boy's queue loose, and Hamilton's eyes fluttered shut as those fingers slid through his hair. There was something achingly intimate in the touch, and in the way the man leaned forward to whisper in Hamilton's ear, "Tell him what you want, Alexander."

Hamilton drew another harsh breath, and his eyes flew open. He clutched at the arm around his waist—but he was staring up into his own general's eyes, so fiercely it was a wonder the air did not ignite. Washington's blood pounded like fire through his veins. He ached to possess the boy, and he held his ground only with difficulty.

"I can't." The flush darkening Hamilton's skin was visible even in the lantern light. "There's too much."

Washington's heart gave a violent stutter.

His mirror image smiled against Hamilton's throat, voice gentle when he asked, "Do you want your general to kiss you?"

" _God_ yes," Hamilton breathed.

Washington needed no better permission. He was already so close, and he framed Hamilton's face between his hands. Closed the distance, claiming the clever mouth that had tormented his fantasies since Hamilton joined his staff. Christ, how he'd wanted this. His blood warmed at how eagerly Hamilton reached for him in return. Alexander's lips parted, inviting the possessive sweep of Washington's tongue, a kiss as hungry as it was sweet.

Washington crushed forward, pinning Hamilton harder against his double's broad chest. He was caught entirely in the sensation of the mouth beneath his own, the warmth of skin and stubble beneath his palms. He was barely aware of the close-by hum of approval in a voice so impossibly familiar.

Hamilton shifted against him, a tease of friction despite the arm still curled between their bodies. Washington groaned into the kiss at the revelation that he was not the only one succumbing to arousal; Hamilton was hard. And there was no mistaking the small, desperate movements—the nudge of his cock against Washington's hip—for anything but a plea.

Washington broke reluctantly from the kiss. He held Hamilton's face between his hands, taking in the dazed hunger in dark eyes. Steadying him, steadying them _both_. Forgetting for the moment that they were not alone.

"Can I touch you, Alexander?"

Hamilton swallowed and licked kiss-reddened lips. He reached up to cover one of Washington's hands with his own—turned his head and pressed a kiss to Washington's palm, slow and deliberate.

Then Hamilton took firmer hold and guided Washington's hand straight down to his cock. If the boy's expression had been pleading before, it was desperate now. Vulnerable. Wanting and unsure.

"You're being too gentle, General." The sound of his double's voice startled Washington, reminded him just how strange the situation truly was. "You do not need to ask—our Alexander prefers to be _taken_."

Washington shivered at the thought. The idea of commanding Hamilton here, in the privacy and intimacy of this moment. The thrill of power given willingly over. God, if that was true…

If it was true, Washington would very much like to _take_.

"Alexander?" He needed to be sure. The ways he wanted to touch Hamilton, to have him, to claim him—the rough use he intended to make of the boy if he was truly willing and eager—he would not risk doing harm when all he wanted was to give pleasure. Hamilton's cock remained hard beneath his hand, but that proved nothing. He needed to hear his boy _say it_.

Hamilton's eyes cut away, face suddenly tight with… embarrassment? Shame? Washington couldn't be sure. But he did not have enough time to begin doubting before Hamilton answered, "Yes."

"Yes, _what_?" Washington pressed.

Hamilton blushed brightly, gaze cast downward, but his voice held steady and honest. "Yes, I want… That. Everything. _Anything_. I want you to take me. _Use me_. You don't have to ask." Belatedly his eyes met Washington's again, gaze flashing with new ferocity. "I have always been yours."

And oh, the time they had _wasted_. Washington couldn't think about that now. It didn't matter. He did not intend to waste another second.

"My beautiful boy," he breathed.

The moments that followed were a fever dream, actions taken in quick succession. Behind Hamilton, Washington's mirror image fisted his fingers in dark hair and yanked the boy's head back, earning a gasp of surprise and pleasure. Washington fumbled Hamilton's breeches open, suddenly impatient, and tugged the loosened fabric down narrow hips.

Hamilton's naked cock was stiff and warm when he took it in hand.

Both Washington and his double leaned forward then, one to either side, and pressed bruising kisses to the taut line of Hamilton's throat. An instant later and Alexander cried out at the first firm stroke of Washington's hand along his length.

Both men paused their attentions at the unguarded sound.

"Shh," the stranger admonished, letting go of Hamilton's hair to cover his mouth with a broad palm. Washington's heart gave a hungry stutter in his chest, and his own cock—already uncomfortable beneath the tight fabric of his breeches—stiffened further at the sight.

Caution was entirely appropriate, of course. They were alone in this house, locked and secure, but the walls would not keep in all sound. The solitude would not be enough to protect them if Hamilton couldn't stay quiet. An entire army slept beyond these walls. And the things Washington intended tonight…

There were men in this camp who would hang him for less.

He met his own eyes over Hamilton's shoulder and caught sight of a warm smirk. But he could not keep his attention away, and his gaze returned quickly, riveted by the sight of his boy restrained, of messy hair and wild eyes. Washington stroked Hamilton's cock again, enjoying the weight of it in his hand—memorizing the silk-smooth heat—the way every touch made his boy moan against the stranger's palm.

He took his time, focusing his entire mind on the task, determined to make this last. He had every intention of tormenting Hamilton to within an inch of his sanity. More importantly, the entire night lay before them; they would not be interrupted before sunrise.

Eventually, despite the frantic edge growing more obvious by the second, the stranger uncovered Hamilton's mouth. Foolish perhaps, trusting him to keep quiet. But Washington found himself impressed as Alexander swallowed back every sob and groan and cry of pleasure, despite how completely he was coming apart beneath his general's ministrations.

"Please," Hamilton whispered, arching beneath the hands holding him. "Please, God, I want to—"

" _No_ ," the stranger said, and it was somehow both a denial and a command. Refusing Hamilton his release, commanding Washington to _stop_.

And he did stop, thrilling at the choked-off whimper as Hamilton's head fell back onto the strong shoulder behind him. Hamilton's whole body was taut as a bowstring, his expressive face caught between agony and pleasure.

"Hush," Washington's duplicate admonished. Gentle fingers carded through Hamilton's hair, tilting his head, allowing Hamilton to tuck his face against the man's throat as his trembling gradually eased. "I know, my boy. We'll give you what you need."

Quick as that, without a word exchanged on the subject, Washington knew _exactly_ what he was supposed to do. Or perhaps it was simply what he _needed_ to do—what he wanted desperately for himself—and he had no doubts at all that this impossible apparition would agree.

He dropped to his knees.

The movement drew Hamilton's attention, sharp and hard, and he stared down at Washington in wild silence. Mouth agape, eyes wide, chest heaving. Anticipation rose hot and pleasant behind Washington's ribs, and he bided his time. Set his hands to Hamilton's thighs and trailed his fingers along tight muscle, smooth skin. He deliberately ignored the ineffectual stutter of Hamilton's hips. The boy couldn't move much while Washington's doppelgänger still held him so tightly about the waist.

There was a glint of moisture at the tip of Hamilton's beautiful cock. Washington's mouth watered at the sight, but he waited. Extending the torment.

Hamilton moaned a broken sound when the hand in his hair twisted tighter, turning his head, this time guiding him into a hard kiss. Washington watched, completely rapt.

It was surreal seeing this with his own eyes. Watching from the outside as his own future self claimed Alexander's willing mouth. Watching Hamilton's jaw drop wider, a glimpse of tongue. Watching his duplicate take and take and take, as the stranger forced the kiss deeper, as the grip in Hamilton's hair directed the boy exactly where he wanted.

Washington's chest tightened with feeling—with want and satisfaction and even an irrational surge of jealousy—at Hamilton's ready submission. At the way his boy clung and trembled and allowed every liberty taken.

He abruptly did not want to wait any longer. Quick and smooth, he leaned forward and drew Alexander's cock into his mouth. His heart sped, his blood heating at the wild shout from his boy, imperfectly muffled by his doppelgänger's forceful kiss.

He withdrew, the slick length slipping from his mouth, and looked up in time to see the kiss end. Hamilton's gaze dropped to meet his own.

Their impossible guest bit teasingly at Hamilton's earlobe. "Can you keep quiet for us, Alexander?"

A beat of heavy silence passed before Hamilton admitted, "No."

So the hand returned, covering his mouth heavily, and Washington bobbed forward to take Alexander's cock once more. He found an easy rhythm as he savored the bitter-salt taste. The slide of flesh over his tongue was a sensation he hadn't experienced in years, and he thrilled at the breathless keening noises muffled above him. After only a handful of moments, Hamilton's shaking hands reached for him, curling around the back of his head.

There was no force in the touch. Hamilton was not trying to rush him. The boy was merely holding on.

This time Washington didn't even consider stopping. He was beyond conscious strategy himself—caught up in the moment and hungry to see this through—but even so, he had no intention of holding back now. Alexander was young and eager, and would surely recover his energies before long.

When Hamilton came, Washington swallowed without a second thought. The boy's cry of pleasure, muffled and fractured, echoed like heaven in his ears.

When Washington rose to his feet, Alexander was visibly shaking, slumped against the sturdy chest behind him, quiet even once the hand fell away. He closed in and took Hamilton's mouth in a hard kiss, offering him a taste of his own release on Washington's tongue.

Something giddy and hungry pulsed through him at the way Hamilton, sated and boneless, still managed to come alive beneath the kiss, clinging to him with desperate hands.

They were both panting heavily when the kiss broke. Even their guest, silent otherwise, was breathing hard. Washington couldn't fathom how his double was managing to stand patiently by. How hard must he be against Hamilton's backside? How tempting to simply rub against the lithe and lively body in his arms? Yet it was obvious at a glance the man had _not_ yet found his own release.

""Will you tell him?" the duplicate asked, placing the question quiet as a whisper in Hamilton's ear.

Confusion flashed in Hamilton's eyes. "Tell him what?"

"How many other men have touched you this way." The words were not a question. "How many have had you, as we intend to have you tonight."

Hamilton stilled instantly as those words hit home. He made no effort to evade the hands still holding him, but there was new reticence in his face. 

Anticipation buzzed beneath Washington's skin. He did not want to know; he was _desperate_ to know.

"Go ahead," his future self coaxed. "Say it, Alexander."

"What if—" Hamilton began to ask, then bit his own lower lip to stop himself.

"It's all right. I promise you. The truth won't scare him away."

The buzz beneath Washington's skin surged higher and louder. How many? How many had already known Hamilton intimately? Washington was well aware of just how many women had fallen into the boy's bed, but men… 

No number could make him want Hamilton any less; there was no shame in experience. Yet he couldn't shut down the jealous voice in his mind that suddenly needed to know.

"No one." Hamilton ducked his head with the admission, and abrupt stillness overtook Washington's scattered thoughts. "No man has ever touched me like this before."

"Oh," Washington breathed, stunned past the finding of words.

Hamilton raised his head again, hesitant, almost fearful. Meeting his eyes only reluctantly, as though terrified Washington would turn him away now that he knew.

Before tonight, perhaps he would have. Without his future self sharing this same intimacy, guiding and commanding and reassuring, perhaps the guilt would have been too much. How could he _not_ feel as though he were taking advantage in the face of such a confession? There was something staggering in the realization of just how innocent the boy was, how complete and unprecedented the liberties Washington intended to take. Perhaps, under different circumstances, he would have walked away in an effort not to compound his sins.

But here, now, he had no intention of leaving.

He kissed Hamilton again, quick and fierce, swallowing the sob of relief from his boy's mouth.

When Washington at last drew back, his double was smiling.

"Allow me," the man murmured—

And dragged Hamilton onto his knees. He knelt behind him as he forced Alexander down. The arm around Hamilton's waist let go its grip, and Washington's doppelgänger grabbed hold of Hamilton's wrists instead, pinning them in one hand behind the boy's back. With his other hand he unwound the cravat from Hamilton's neck and tossed it aside—baring smooth skin for the exploring touch of his mouth.

Hamilton gasped aloud, twisted in his hold—turned his head to be kissed—and of course the stranger indulged the wordless plea. He took his time, rested his free hand over Hamilton's chest as though measuring his heartbeat.

Again a rush of irrational jealousy rose in Washington's chest, and he remembered his double's teasing admonishment. _You're being too gentle… Our Alexander prefers to be taken_. 

Well. The point had certainly been proven—there was no mistaking the way Hamilton responded to every forceful touch—the raw honesty in every word and look and plea. So Washington unbuttoned his vest and opened his breeches, sliding pale fabric down his hips to free his achingly hard cock. He reached down and twisted his fingers cruelly in Hamilton's hair, dragging him from the kiss and directing his attention forward.

Hamilton startled but did not resist. His eyes widened, and he licked his lips as he caught sight of the naked cock that suddenly filled his line of sight.

Washington gave another tug that forced Hamilton to strain his head back, to meet his eyes. The look they exchanged was pure fire.

He knew. _He knew_ Hamilton had never done this before. And he knew just as surely that his boy was going to open wide for his cock, without question or hesitation. It would be the first cock he had ever tasted. And it could not have been more obvious just how eager Hamilton was, how ready to have his clever mouth taken this way, used this way. How desperate to give himself to his general.

Washington was painfully, guiltily sure he should not do this. But he knew with equal certainty that he was going to do it anyway.

Hamilton's chest rose and fell too quickly as he met his general's stare. His lips were already swollen from forceful kisses, his eyes desperately wide.

"Open your mouth, Alexander," Washington ordered, stern and steady. "Keep your eyes on _me_."

Hamilton obeyed both commands. He dropped his jaw but continued to gaze up into Washington's face, even as the grip in his hair guided his head back down. Ready. Willing. Perfect.

Washington guided Hamilton onto his cock. He bit back a moan at the first slide of soft lips along his shaft, kept forcing Hamilton forward until the head of his cock bumped the back of the boy's throat. Hamilton gagged, but managed to hold still—to not retreat—and his eyes fluttered closed for only an instant. A moment later and he was obeying his general's spoken command once more, staring up with expressive eyes. Holding perfectly still.

Not that he would have been able to move even if he wanted to. Not with his wrists pinned behind him, the arm tight across his chest, the hand fisted viciously in his hair.

But he was offering no resistance at all, and this submission—this challenge readily accepted—sent a shockwave of arousal hot through Washington's stomach.

He pulled Hamilton toward him, and thrilled at the flutter of the boy's throat struggling not to gag as the head of Washington's cock nudged forward. A moment was all he allowed for adjustment, and then he forced Hamilton farther along. He felt the shudder, heard the wet choking reaction as his cock slipped deeper and Alexander fought to swallow around the invading length.

He held the boy there for a long moment. Tears shone wet in Hamilton's eyes, glinting in the firelight. But despite the obvious discomfort, there was not the slightest hint of reluctance. Only stubbornness and heat.

After several deliberate seconds, Washington withdrew completely. He kept tight hold of Hamilton's hair even while he allowed the boy to choke and cough and recover himself. Even this glimpse spun desire tighter in his chest.

He didn't need to repeat himself. Hamilton opened his mouth again without prompting. So eager and compliant, so utterly obedient. Washington dragged him forward, sliding his cock once more into warm, wet, perfect heat.

Alexander was an alarmingly quick study. He still gagged on the cock being forced down his throat, but he swallowed more confidently this time. The effort earned a low curse and a stutter of Washington's hips—and Hamilton gagged harder, choked around him as the stutter wedged the thick length even deeper—but Hamilton only blinked the tears from his eyes, shuddering as he fought to relax and _take it_.

Washington held him there. Forced him to wait, _forced him_ to take it. Held him perfectly still even as Hamilton began to tremble beneath his hand.

He let the boy off only reluctantly, easing back until just the head of his cock lay across Hamilton's tongue. Reddened lips stayed closed tight around him. The sight was absolutely obscene.

Beautiful.

Washington lingered there a moment, enjoying the view, before guiding Hamilton forward once more. This time he continued until there was no farther to go. Hamilton shuddered and struggled—not against his hold, but around the overwhelming length—swallowing and choking and giving no indication of wanting Washington to stop. He took it all as Washington's entire cock fucked down his throat, gagging noisily but offering no resistance. Allowing himself, eagerly and readily, to be used.

Hamilton could not possibly breathe once Washington was fully sheathed. There was no way he could draw air past the girth filling him so deeply. His nose bumped against Washington's belly, his whole body trembling as his throat worked in gurgling spasms around the sizable cock.

Washington tightened his fingers in soft hair and held Alexander firmly, inescapably still. With his free hand he touched Hamilton's face—traced the tears that had spilled shiny across his cheek—touched the shivering skin of Hamilton's throat.

He could have spent himself like this. Easily. His orgasm would have overtaken him then and there if he weren't consciously fighting it back. 

Instead he dragged Hamilton off his cock, no longer startled at just how much he enjoyed the helpless sounds—the gasping and panting noises of Hamilton recovering from the rough use. When he glanced down into his doppelgänger's face, he found an approving smile turned up at him.

As Hamilton regained equilibrium, he seemed to suddenly remember that he had _two_ lovers to contend with. He moved surprisingly gracefully, rubbing himself back against the body behind him in a way that made the older Washington's throat work in a hard swallow. A strangled sound of pleasure escaped the man's barely parted lips.

Hamilton looked decidedly pleased with himself. And when Washington glanced down he realized that, regardless of how recent his boy's release, Hamilton's cock was well on its way to hardness again. Their guest looked winded now, too. Washington pulled Hamilton's hair harder on principle, earning a low moan and a slack-jawed expression of pleasure.

"Perhaps we should relocate?" Washington's double sounded distinctly less in-control than he had a moment ago, but there was still an undeniable air of authority beneath the words. "I doubt _any_ of us will be happy tomorrow if we continue this on the floor."

For an instant Washington indulged a flash of an image, a thought of holding Hamilton down on the floor—spreading him open there—fucking him on the hard and unforgiving floorboards. It was a fleeting thought. For all the heat of that image, for all that he was sure Hamilton would allow it as eagerly as everything else they had done, the comfort of his bed was far more appealing.

Between them, the two Washingtons dragged Hamilton roughly to his feet.

Then the stranger abruptly let go and took a step back. "Undress your boy. It's far too warm in here."

Washington complied without hesitation. His focus was already firmly held by Hamilton; now it honed in to the exclusion of all else. He tried to take his time, but of course he failed. Too impatient to see Hamilton bare before him, too hungry for every inch of beautiful skin.

Hamilton did his best to speed the process along. He moved when bidden, shrugged his waistcoat to the floor, kicked aside his boots. Barely stumbled when Washington began to maneuver him toward the bed. The progress across the room was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, every step nearer the bed was a step closer to having Hamilton beneath him where he belonged. On the other hand, every step took them farther from the light, and Washington wanted to _see_.

But if he had to choose between seeing and touching, he would far prefer to touch.

Thankfully he didn't have to choose. By the time he had Hamilton naked beside the bed, the light was coming to them. He did not need to spare a glance to know his double was approaching with the lantern in hand. A moment later and steady hands set the lantern down on the low bureau beside the bed. Washington barely acknowledged him, too busy looking his fill as he pushed Hamilton to the edge of the high mattress and watched his boy climb up onto the bed.

His double was already undressed, and Washington glanced over to see him set a small stoppered bottle beside the lantern. Difficult as it was to keep his gaze from Alexander, Washington was too curious _not_ to take in the sight of his own future self. He didn't know how much time had passed for this impossible apparition, but the years had not changed him much. Softened him around the edges, certainly—he was no longer a weapon honed of constant battle and insufficient rations—but he still stood tall and strong, impressive muscles shaping his arms and shoulders, his powerful thighs and broad chest.

"You are wearing far too many clothes, General," the man pointed out with a spark of amusement.

It was true. Washington's cock stood free above the line of his breeches, but he still wore all but his uniform jacket. He was over-warm, and desperate to be naked in his bed with Alexander.

When his reflection reached out and dragged Washington's cravat away, Hamilton audibly gasped beside them—drawing the attention of both men to where he sat atop the bed. Hamilton's arms were braced behind him, his cock hard between carelessly spread thighs, his mouth ajar as his hungry gaze darted between the two nearly identical men.

_Oh_ , Washington thought with a jolt of pleasure. Hamilton was _enjoying_ this. Strange, but not unwelcome knowledge. He exchanged a look with himself and gave a one-shouldered shrug, earned a small but genuine smile in response.

Then his double's hands reached for him and began to strip him methodically of his garments. It wasn't particularly arousing. Surreal as the experience felt, it was remarkably like undressing himself. His own hands, moving at the same speed as always, removing one article of clothing after another exactly the way he always had. But in his peripheral vision, his focus was all for Hamilton—and there was no missing the fact that his boy was riveted by the view. Breathing hard, fingers clutched in the rough-spun bedspread, lower lip caught between his teeth.

To know this was having such an effect on him… Washington's blood spiked hot at the image Alexander painted.

"Better," his doppelgänger murmured when they were all three completely disrobed.

The bed creaked beneath their weight as they settled to either side of Alexander. For a time there was little coordination between them—only roaming hands, quiet moans, the softness of bare skin beneath Washington's mouth as he kissed the delicate line of his boy's throat. He left deliberate bruises with his teeth, careful to place them where no one would see tomorrow.

They held Hamilton between them, teasing and exploring. By unspoken agreement, neither of them deigned to touch his cock, no matter _how_ beautifully Alexander squirmed in their arms.

Of course his impatient boy could not be held at bay forever. It was only a matter of time before Hamilton made a more blatant attempt to guide his general's touch where he ached for it—but Washington was ready—he grabbed Hamilton by both wrists, stilling him with bruising strength. On the other side, his duplicate grabbed Hamilton by the chin, turning his head to position him for a kiss—long and hard and brutal.

A moment later, as the kiss ended, the all too familiar voice rumbled, "Don't be greedy, Alexander. Do you really think we're going to allow you satisfaction _twice_ before we've had our fun?"

" _Please_." Hamilton writhed between them. "Please, I need—"

"Yes," the stranger interrupted, darting in to bite at Hamilton's lower lip. "Your general and I are going to give you what you need. We're going to take care of you."

" _Sir_ ," Hamilton breathed helplessly.

"We're going to give you everything you want tonight," that smooth rumble continued. "Use you _exactly_ the way you yearn to be used."

"Who— Who are you?" Hamilton panted. He was shaking in Washington's hold, staring hard at their guest. Taking him in with bright and piercing eyes. "I've never told anyone— How do you know these things?"

"I am a man who cherishes you, Alexander. And there are _many_ things I know."

"You're older than him. How— How much older?"

"I can't tell you that." Though the question earned a kiss and a soft smile. "Believe me, it will not slow me down. General?"

Washington blinked at realizing he was being addressed. He looked from Hamilton's beautifully shattered expression to the face so much like his own.

"The bottle." His future self flicked a glance to the stoppered bottle on the bureau, within easy reach. "You will want to use its contents, to prepare our little lion for what comes next."

" _Oh_ ," Hamilton breathed, as Washington let go of his wrists.

The stranger shifted away, seating himself against the headboard and tugging Hamilton into his lap, back to chest. He slid hands down to brush Hamilton's thighs, lightly at first, then took a firmer hold and spread Hamilton's legs forcefully apart.

The bottle was small, and when Washington unstoppered it he caught the scent of olive oil. This he knew _exactly_ what to do with. He shifted across the bedspread on his knees, moving to kneel between Hamilton's spread legs. It was quick work to slick his fingers, and he crowded eagerly forward as he sought that hot, private place between his boy's thighs—found it—and slid two fingers carefully past the tight rim of Alexander's ass.

Hamilton shuddered at the intrusion, but the wild sound he breathed was unmistakable pleasure. As both fingers pressed deeper, he reached for Washington—twined his arms across broad shoulders and clung tightly—held him close. He buried a cry against Washington's throat as the fingers inside him crooked and then impaled him further. They stopped only when Washington's hand was flush with Hamilton's body, warm between the boy's spread thighs.

Hamilton was trembling beneath him, around him, shaking and breathing hard.

"Does it hurt?" Washington asked, nearly overwhelmed by the sight of his boy like this—breathtaking and aroused, half hidden in shadow—body impossibly tight around his general's fingers.

"No," Hamilton whined.

Quick as lightning, their guest twisted one hand in Hamilton's hair and dragged his head back, forcing his face into the light. "Do not _ever_ lie to him, Alexander." There was a snarl in that tone—an edge of violence and promise—but a moment later came a gentler echo of Washington's question. "Does it hurt?"

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton said, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. "God, don't stop. Please don't stop— I want more."

Washington withdrew his fingers and added more oil, then slipped a third in alongside the first two. He pressed deep, too quickly, but he couldn't repent his actions when they earned such a delighted shock of sound from Alexander. Hamilton still clung tightly to Washington's shoulders, despite the grip in his hair forcing his head back. And Washington watched his double learn forward to bite Hamilton— _hard_ —at the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder.

He moved forward himself then, covering Hamilton's mouth in a kiss to swallow the resulting cry. God, he relished the way pleasure made Hamilton bear down on his fingers, desperately tight despite the slickness.

He thrust his fingers out and in, loosening Alexander's inexperienced body. He swallowed the giddy moans, kissing his boy deeply and thoroughly with every thrust of his fingers. Hamilton was a wildfire beneath him, restless and lively, and Washington could barely _think_ past his desire to get his fingers out of the way and put his cock in their place. He couldn't fathom how their guest was coping with the way Hamilton writhed against him.

"Fuck me," Hamilton gasped between kisses. "Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_. Do it, sir. Please, I'm ready, I need it. Please take me— God, do it _now_."

"Alexander," Washington tried to protest. He would never forgive himself if he harmed his boy.

But before Hamilton could even renew his pleading, Washington's double growled, " _Do it_." And Washington couldn't find it in himself to disobey.

He moved farther down the bed, taking hold of Hamilton and dragging him flat, laying him out on his back. No longer bothering to be gentle. His double shifted at the head of the bed, kneeling above Hamilton and pinning his wrists firmly to the mattress.

Washington nearly spent untouched at the vision of his boy laid out like this—his boy _held down_ like this—wanton and debauched, every look and breath and movement a plea to be taken.

He slipped into position between splayed thighs, and Hamilton spread himself wider, blatant invitation.

Washington slicked himself with oil, nearly fumbling the stopper as he put the bottle back onto the bureau. An instant later and he grabbed Hamilton by the hips. He did not bother measuring his strength as he fucked into the pliant body beneath him.

His double's unoccupied hand moved just quickly enough, reaching down to cover Hamilton's mouth, silencing the loud cry before Alexander could alert the entire camp to their activities. Hamilton's spine arched and his wide eyes lost their focus as Washington rolled his hips—as he pressed inexorably forward—as he filled his boy inch by inch, trying to go slow, trying to be _careful_. Clearly a little discomfort would not dissuade Hamilton's enjoyment, judging by everything that had already passed between them, but Washington didn't dare forget that Hamilton was a virgin.

Washington was his first. The only man to claim him this way. And he did not want to hurt his boy.

By the time Washington's cock was seated entirely in that tight, impossible heat, Hamilton's eyes had drifted closed. His knees were bent, bracketing Washington's hips, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His whole body was shaking.

When the hand covering his mouth fell away, Hamilton dragged in a shuddering breath.

Washington hesitated.

"No," his doppelgänger said raggedly before he could ask the question on the tip of his tongue. "He doesn't need you to stop."

Perhaps that should not have been enough reassurance. But Washington let his weight fall forward, covering Alexander with his body and kissing his boy. He rolled his hips, despite the fact that it wasn't physically possible to get any deeper. The movement shifted his cock inside Alexander, and he delighted in the moan Hamilton breathed against his mouth—enjoyed the way Hamilton shivered beneath him, back arching and chest slick with sweat.

When the kiss broke, they were both panting with exertion. Washington drew his hips back and fucked in again, rutting deep and jostling Alexander's body with the rough thrust. This time Alexander managed to keep quiet without help, clenching his jaw around a high whine of pleasure. Hamilton's own arousal was trapped between them, hard and slick with precome.

Washington straightened, kneeling upright—taking firmer hold of Hamilton's hips—and using the extra leverage to fuck out and in once more.

He fell deliberately still then, buried deep, staring down into Alexander's expressive face. Savoring and memorizing this impossible moment. He was hungry to finish, desperate to make this last as long as possible, and caught motionless between the conflicting desires.

Hamilton's gaze cleared a little at the stillness. His wrists were still pinned in a single solid grip above his head. Washington wondered if there would be bruises beneath the lace of his sleeves tomorrow; he selfishly hoped there would be.

A moment later Alexander's attention drifted upward to their impossible visitor. To the stiff line of the man's cock, and then to the unmasked arousal storming across the stern face.

"What about you?" Hamilton asked, and the wrecked gravel of his voice sent fresh desire coursing beneath Washington's skin.

The doppelgänger fell motionless. After a moment he raised his head to meet Washington's eyes. "Turn him over."

Washington pulled out only long enough to push Hamilton onto his front and force him up onto his knees. He didn't wait so much as a second once he had his boy in place—just thrust his cock deep again before Hamilton had even managed to brace his elbows against the mattress. He barely resisted the urge to keep moving once sheathed; holding still was difficult with Hamilton so warm and tight around him, but he managed. His fingers dug unrelenting bruises into the boy's hips, holding him still with Washington's cock inside him.

Waiting, because Washington was not the only one who had been patient.

His double looked down at Hamilton, twisting his fingers in the boy's hair. "Will you satisfy me as well, Alexander?" There was a teasing note to the question.

"Yes," Hamilton breathed, pressing up onto his elbows. "Please, yes."

The stranger's other hand curled beneath Hamilton's jaw, and without further delay he dragged the boy forward onto his cock. The strength in his hands was obviously unnecessary; it could not have been more apparent that Hamilton was desperate for this, choking for it, greedy to be taken by both men at once.

Hamilton breathed a sound of pure pleasure as those strong hands forced him ever farther along the cock fucking into his mouth.

Any last hint of self-restraint Washington might have possessed crumbled to nothing at the noise, at the way Hamilton's muscles clenched tight around him. He did not try to be gentle. No, when he moved, he _moved_ , fucking his boy in earnest. Pounding into him, hard and deep and relentless.

They quickly found a rhythm, filling Hamilton between them with a brutality that only made the boy moan louder. Washington did not moderate his strength; and across the bed he could see his doppelgänger making the same rough use of Hamilton's mouth. Hips snapped forward, forcing the entire length down Hamilton's throat, despite the way it made Hamilton gag and choke as he tried to swallow.

The sounds Hamilton made in the moments between—the wild and incautious moans and cries and whimpers of ecstasy—were almost too much.

Their visitor came first, shoving his cock down Hamilton's throat and leaving him no choice but to swallow.

When the softening length slipped from Hamilton's mouth, Washington only picked up his pace. Hamilton was _begging_ now that his mouth was free, pleading for more with a voice gone to fucked-out gravel. Breathing a wild mantra of _yes-yes-yes-yes-fuck-yes_ in low, shaking sobs.

Washington draped his weight forward along Hamilton's spine as the stranger withdrew toward the side of the bed. The man was apparently content to give them space, watching with a pleased expression as Washington continued to fuck his boy. Washington kissed Alexander's shoulder without slowing, bit lightly at the nape of his neck. Another moment and he reached forward to cover one of Hamilton's hands with his own, twining their fingers together atop the blanket.

Hamilton's fingers tightened around his, and Washington slipped his other hand forward to take hold of Alexander's cock.

Neither of them lasted long after that. How could they—how could Washington hold back _now_ , after wanting this for so long? He stroked his boy to completion, barely remembering to cover Hamilton's mouth to muffle the wild cry of release. 

Alexander's body drew taut, clenched tighter around the cock inside him, and Washington's own orgasm rose and crested and carried him over the edge. He bit down hard on Hamilton's shoulder as he came, muffling his shout of pleasure. In some rational corner of his thoughts, he knew he would leave an impressive bruise behind—that Hamilton would be wearing the imprint of his teeth for days to come—but he didn't care.

More than that: he _relished_ the idea. God, he felt giddy at the thought of Hamilton touching the spot tomorrow—or better still, setting his own hand on Hamilton's shoulder as he passed behind the boy at work. Reminding him of this moment. Of Washington on top of him, inside of him, holding him down and claiming him here in this bed.

It seemed an eternity before he managed to reassemble his wits about him. He stayed right where he was as his senses righted themselves—kept Hamilton's warm and exhausted body beneath him, their fingers twined once more together—Washington's cock softening and over-sensitized but still pressed deep.

"Are you all right, my boy?"

"Yes." Hamilton sounded drunk, or perhaps sleepy. He breathed a sound of protest as Washington at last withdrew from his body. But he offered no resistance a moment later, when Washington shoved him roughly onto his back against the mattress.

Washington crushed forward and claimed a satisfied, possessive kiss. He took Hamilton's mouth, slow and thorough and filthy, patient now that the fire had quieted in his veins. When at last he pushed himself up onto his forearms, he found Hamilton's expression bleary with exhaustion.

Hamilton reached out unsteadily, tracing his fingers across Washington's cheek and jaw, trailing them along his throat.

"Thank you," Hamilton said.

"Alexander…" He didn't know how to answer. He'd never been good with words—he had _Hamilton_ for words—and he was helpless to navigate such terrain now. Even if he had better tools to work with, how could he possibly do this moment justice? Surely there weren't words enough in existence to convey the cannonade of feelings sparking in his chest, as he stared down at the beautiful ravished mess he had made of his boy.

Countless bruises scattered across delicate skin, gorgeously illuminated by the flickering light. They were beautiful. He only hoped Hamilton would welcome them tomorrow as thoroughly as he'd seemed to enjoy receiving them tonight.

Washington let his gaze wander. He was not ashamed of what he'd done. Perhaps he would be later—would worry that he had taken too much. Perhaps the inescapable knowledge that he was Hamilton's commanding officer would catch up to him, make him wonder if he'd gone too far.

Something sharp and smoldering in his heart suggested otherwise.

When his wandering gaze returned to Hamilton's face, he realized the boy was not merely allowing him this lengthy moment of indulgence. His Alexander had fallen asleep. Lips barely parted, long lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Beautiful.

Washington smiled. After a moment he eased back and away, considering how best to get his boy beneath the covers without waking him.

He startled at the soft clearing of a throat, and shifted his attention to follow the sound. When he raised his eyes he realized that his older self had not only removed himself from the bed, but had _dressed_ , coat and all. The expression on that eerily familiar face was soft and kind.

Washington rose, carefully so as not to jostle the mattress as he got to his feet. For a fleeting moment he wondered if he should at least fetch his smallclothes—he felt ridiculous and strangely vulnerable—but ultimately, what point was there in modesty _now_.

He watched his guest pocket the stoppered bottle from the nightstand and take hold of the lantern. A tilt of the head indicated he wanted Washington to follow him. They didn't move far. Just across the room, away from the bed, the better to speak in low tones without waking their boy.

His double set the lantern in its previous position on the desk, taking no apparent notice of Washington's nakedness.

"I'm sure you can manage without me from here."

"Please." Washington spoke without consciously intending to. "Please, I need to know—"

"I can't tell you anything of what's coming." There was something tired in those knowing eyes. "I have no idea how I'm here, or why. I won't risk changing the course of history, and I can't tell you how to win this war."

"No," Washington agreed even as his heart began to pound noisily in his chest. "But… Please. Tell me about Alexander. Does he survive?"

He was terrified of the answer. He'd seen just how determined Hamilton was to martyr himself for a righteous cause. Washington had gone to great lengths to prevent him from succeeding; he'd known almost from the start that watching the boy die would destroy him.

He could not bear the thought.

Now that the words were out of his mouth, he almost wished he hadn't asked. God, if the answer was _no_ —if Hamilton would not survive the war—how could Washington even continue to fight?

But his double smiled, soft and knowing and… not sad, exactly. But intimate. Kind. As though he understood exactly the tangle of emotions in Washington's chest.

Of course he understood. He had felt the same.

"Yes. He will live."

The answer sent a pulse of relief so sharply through his chest that Washington's knees nearly gave out beneath him. A steadying hand at his arm helped keep him upright. He was shaking, suddenly and uncontrollably. Thanking a God he was far from sure he still believed in.

Out loud all he said was, "Thank you." But those two words came out so low and breathless, his double couldn't possibly miss the depth of feeling beneath them. Washington had never experienced a gratitude so sharp, so nearly painful—not just for the answer, but for _everything_. Everything this impossible man had given him tonight.

Washington had wanted Hamilton so long, and so desperately. It had never once occurred to him that he could actually _have_ the boy, and to learn the truth this way… He still could not quite believe it.

His doppelgänger only nodded.

A moment passed. Several moments. Gauging and quiet, until finally Washington asked in a steadier voice, "What happens now?"

"That's up to you. I'll be gone soon. Back to my own time, I hope. My Alexander will be expecting me. Probably worrying himself into a frenzy at my absence."

"When?" Scant hours remained until sunrise. It would be… complicated, for his guest to still be present when headquarters began to fill back up with Washington's staff and soldiers.

But even before he could reasonably expect an answer, his double gasped a harsh breath and nearly doubled over. A gust of impossible wind crept through the closed room, setting the lantern flame flickering. Washington reached out a steadying hand and grasped his double by the elbow, the black velvet sleeve soft against his palm. Shadows dragged the room around them to an almost unnatural darkness, and Washington's eyes strained to keep sight of the figure before him.

Before he could ask if the man was all right, his double straightened with a pained chuckle. "It seems the answer to your question is _right now_." A hand reached out, clasping Washington's firmly. "Be good to him."

The darkness spread, settled, grew heavier. Washington watched in amazement as this imperfect mirror image faded before his eyes. His impossible visitor turned insubstantial—then transparent as a thin piece of crystal—before disappearing entirely.

Leaving Washington standing entirely alone as the shadows cleared.

No. He was not entirely alone. His Alexander was close by. Soundly asleep. And Washington was here with him—startled and disbelieving—raw with possessive hope.

He knew he should wake the boy. He needed to make him dress, send him away. Back to his own bedroll and his fellow aides. Everyone would wonder why Hamilton did not return: despite his propensity to forego sleep in favor of other pursuits—whether those pursuits involved work or women—Hamilton rarely stayed out all night.

But Washington could not bear the thought of evicting him from this room.

He took a moment to gather the clothing that had scattered across the floor, collecting and folding and setting it carefully aside. A brief check confirmed that the door remained securely locked. He would not be calm enough to sleep tonight, which meant he could wake Hamilton before dawn. No one would suspect anything untoward on discovering Hamilton already at work on Washington's correspondence.

His last act was to blow out the lantern's flame, and return to his bed in complete darkness.

Despite Washington's careful movements, Hamilton woke as his general slipped into the bed beside him.

"Is he gone?" Hamilton asked, voice blurry with sleep. He moved obligingly, turning onto his side and allowing his general to curl along his back.

"Yes." Washington murmured the word into Hamilton's skin, draping an arm about his waist and holding him close. "Sleep, Alexander. It will be morning soon."

"Mmm," Hamilton agreed, and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
